I had to stop and re-think things over. I wasn’t the one killing people. I was pursuing a case, and that was all. Hydrogen Steel was the murderer. I had to keep reminding myself of that distinction. It wasn’t easy.
That bloody thing had been keeping Gideon and me busy with its little games while it went about human space on its quiet murderous business, no doubt carrying out each execution in a way that deflected blame from anything sinister. No doubt every one of these sixty-three new deaths would look like something simple and obvious, crimes of passion, terrible accidents occurring in the middle of drunken fights, or even sudden, tragic deaths by natural causes. I was now familiar with its work. Kell Fallow, for example, reportedly had a history of erratic behavior after some kind of accident, and oh look, he’s gone and killed his family. Tragic, but it was the sort of thing that sometimes happened. Even I knew that from my own long experience. Without knowing what I did about external circumstances, would I have been able to see the larger game going on with the Fallow case? Or would I have been fooled like everyone else? The more Fallow would have wailed about his innocence, the more I, with my own personal disposable-related problems, might have been more certain of his guilt.
How many of the countless deaths that I had investigated in my career had been subtle setups, and not at all what they had seemed?
The thought gnawed at me. Hydrogen Steel might have had a busy practice for some time, killing people for different reasons through his smoke assassins. And now there were all these new victims. Sixty-three people, spread across human space. And all of them linked. What did they know that got them killed?”
The thought left me feeling sick and helpless. The idea of investigating these deaths felt like an entire new homicide career stretching out before me, only this time with the foreknowledge that I’d be second-guessing everything, looking for the subtlest of clues — and, no doubt, infuriating local law enforcement with my mad rantings about the interference of greater powers and secrets too dangerous to know.
Was I up to this task? I didn’t know. Otaru said that Hydrogen Steel had been trying to prevent the spread of certain information. Discovering that information was now very high indeed on my new priority list.
If only I could find out what the information was without then getting killed for knowing it. I would need insurance. I would need the firemind equivalent of “dirt”.
And that preposterous thought made me laugh, suddenly.
Who the hell would know — and was still alive to tell me? I wondered.
I took some breaths. Brooding wasn’t helping. There was still a bit of time before we landed. Maybe a nap would help? I tried, but even with my psychostats doing what they could, there was still much too much on my mind. I lay on a very low sofa, tossed and turned, tried to calm the noise in my head, and gave up.
In the course of fiddling with my psychostats I noticed that my headware interface looked different. Previously it had been all dark industrial colors, brooding and intense and bleak. Now, after the Otaru upgrades, it was different. It looked subtle, all earth shades, with functions laid out on their respective pages in a way that looked like someone had actually thought about how people look at their headware interfaces. It felt intuitive, where the previous system had often been laborious to operate.
Then there were the new features: what was the “contemplate” function for, other than the obvious? There was a program which invited the user to learn traditional Japanese musical instruments, such as the koto. Why? What possible use did I have for that? I could choose from a variety of user interface guides, which included a simulation of the Otaru node I had met; a traditional geisha in a gorgeous kimono; and a noble, fierce samurai. Each would lead me through the details of the headware, if I needed such guidance.
In the course of looking into all of this, I discovered there was now an extensive block of information about the firemind Hydrogen Steel and its behavior, history, nodes, and much else. It looked like the kind of thing I would have to find time to study a bit later. None of it looked like light or fun reading. It looked like a university program from which you would graduate knowing a great deal about things that could get you killed.
It also occurred to me that, considering where I got this information, it might not be the most objective information available. To supplement this I sent out carefully framed sniffer queries to the infosphere asking about fireminds in general, with perhaps a mild focus towards that one in particular. As an afterthought, I also asked for information about the firemind Otaru. I wanted someone to fill me in on this apparent feud between the fireminds.
As far as I knew, Otaru’s protection meant that I was now more or less invisible to Hydrogen Steel and its spies. Would issuing a search request like this draw unwelcome attention? I consulted the Otaru interface node in the display card.
“It is true, to a limited extent, Suzette McGee,” he said, taking his time to answer, as if weighing a great many considerations. “Hydrogen Steel will be searching for you. It knows you cannot have gone far, and does not suspect that we are assisting you. We recommend that you complete your investigation on New Norway as soon as possible and leave the system.”
“What if it spots us down on Narwhal Island?” I said.
“You have your bodyguards. They should be enough.”
I thought about the great load of military hardware Gideon bought, and which by now was probably sitting idly in a couple of freight containers on the dock at New Oslo. I hoped Theo would give him a refund — and that it wouldn’t involve my contact details. I also thought about that assassin made of pure night I’d seen through Kell Fallow’s borrowed eyes, a figure condensing out of evil black smoke. Could Otaru’s invisible samurai protect us from something like that? What if the place was crawling with them?
Then I thought of something worse, much worse: “Um, what’s Hydrogen Steel likely to do if it finds out what you’re doing? I mean, this whole Emulation thing, and helping me, and all that?”
“We will not be found, Suzette McGee.” The displayed image blew away, leaving a blank card.
I hoped they were right.
Gideon turned up and informed me that he could not find the powerplant anywhere. “The whole thing looks exactly like a regular house.” He had a point. The windows provided views onto a very familiar Zen Garden and a breathtaking misty forest. In the distance you could see the ruins of a medieval castle. There was no indication that you were sitting inside a spacecraft of any kind. The artificial-g provided the most realistic sense of gravity I had ever felt; it was better even than spin-g, which in turn made me wonder what this ship must look like. I imagined something with a huge spinning g-ring, but it was hard to picture. To the best of my ability I believed we were physical selves inhabiting a physical space, which meant that whatever this ship was it had to be large enough to incorporate this house.
We landed on the torn-up aerodrome tarmac. Our ship did not quite touch the surface; it hovered on delicately tuned floatfields mere centimeters above the ground.
The shift from artificial-g to the real g of the world passed with only a minor twinge of nausea. When the ship opened its outer door for us, our first sensation of Narwhal Island was of biting cold wind, and the stink of charred wooden buildings. Apart from that, the air smelled a little salty and metallic, and we could hear big rumbling surf crashing against the nearby rocks.
Out of the ship, we immediately felt glad we’d taken the time to get the ship’s fab units to whomp us up some appropriate, if rather garishly colored, light nanogel-based cold weather gear. All the same, it’s one thing to have been briefed on surface conditions, and another to step out into a wicked slicing wind.
It was late afternoon. The pale white sun was setting out over the steel-grey sea.
I glanced back at the ship, out of curiosity, and nudged Gideon. He and I took several steps back a
nd stared up at the vast bulk of the thing.
We both swore.
He said, “Where the hell would you park it?”
“I don’t think that’s something you’d worry about if you owned it.”
It was much bigger than I had expected. Gideon’s yacht, the Good Idea, was a bigger ship than I had expected, too, but this Otaru ship was the size of a city block, or more. It was a flat triangle, marked in a striking bronze and black livery. Its three smooth sides were marred only by subtle sensor bulges, comm arrays and the rectangular outer space door. The living quarters must occupy only a few percent of its volume, I realized.
There was no sign of its powerplant.
With difficulty, we pulled ourselves away from the awe-inspiring ship and looked around a bit more. We’d watched a video feed from outside during the final stages of our landing cycle, and we’d seen that the aerodrome was a blasted mess. Seeing it now, in the flesh, was still a shock. It looked like a major army had been through, employing the tactics of scorched earth, total war. Everything lay in burned and broken ruins. Hangars, admin buildings, the control tower, all of it.
Nearby, though, were careful stacks of different sorts of wreckage, pulled from the destroyed structures for closer examination by a handful of khaki-uniformed cops and forensic scientists in white jumpsuits who picked through the items, searching for clues. I was a bit embarrassed that our arrival had caused a commotion. It looked like half the area’s residents were turning up in a variety of vehicles and on foot to have a good hard look at the visitors. The ones whose faces we could see didn’t look pleased to see us.
We heard over the wind the heavy stutter of an approaching hov, coming from the west. It was a white and black civilian taxi, an old, carefully maintained Tourignon. As it came in to land near us, the rich stench of thruster-fuel was hard to take. As the thruster-stench dissipated I could hear the jets spinning down and ticking with heat.
The hov unfolded and a crisp-uniformed Esseka Police Service officer climbed out, straightened his shirt, adjusted his pants and made sure his service tie was correctly and smoothly deployed, all the while looking at his reflection in the curved aeroshell hov window. Then, turning, he took in the sheer size and look of our ship. “Cripes!” he said, quietly.
I took a step forward, hand out, “Hello!” I shouted against the wind and made the introductions. “I believe you’re expecting us?”
The liaison guy was a real human, as far as I could tell — which really wasn’t saying much anymore, I realized only as my mind formed the judgment. He looked real enough.
He flashed a crisp salute and announced over the wind, “Police Liaison Officer Theodorsen, J., Esseka Federal Police.”
We shook hands. I was amazed to see that while we were all bundled up in our fancy cold-weather gear, Theodorsen was dressed only in his uniform, and he looked fine. Perhaps a slight rosy glow in his cheeks, but that was all. His hand, amazingly, was warm.
“You must be Inspector McGee.”
I nodded, startled that Otaru had somehow given me enough accreditation that my former title was called for; also, how could this fool not notice the cold?
“Aren’t you freezing to death in this wind, Officer?” I said, gesturing around us.
“What wind? This is the height of summer, Inspector. You’ve come at the best time of year!”
Gideon and I exchanged glances.
We decided to move on to business.
CHAPTER 24
“Perhaps you could brief us on the investigation to date?” I said.
Officer Theodorsen invited us to get into the hov. “You are both carrying current headware document handling systems?”
When we indicated that we were, Theodorsen uploaded the current case files to us. The information contained within these documents unpacked and revealed itself to us during the brief flight into what had been Haventown, the island’s main settlement.
In short, two nights ago, local time, a force of several unidentified assailants, currently described as “terrorists”, swept across the island, striking many points at once, destroying all buildings and slaughtering the inhabitants and the handful of livestock on the settlement’s farms. Attached to the files were images and video in a wide range of wavelengths taken from around the island, which clearly illustrated the extent of the destruction. There were even images taken from orbit which showed numerous thick plumes of hot smoke glowing in infra-red and drifting out over the ocean.
There were also audio clips taken as panicking islanders tried calling for help in the final minutes of their lives. Many had no idea what was happening, other than it looked very much like the end of the world. There were no images of the attackers. Witnesses spoke of buildings simply erupting in great fiery explosions, and terrified people, many on fire, running around, trying to protect their children, only to find themselves suddenly collapsing.
I called up the text-message Gideon’s disposable Simon had sent, in which he had made out as many as perhaps ten assailants, who were “black things”, sweeping around the island annihilating everything in their path.
Simon had had some preliminary briefing on what he might find; none of these locals were expecting anything other than a quiet night at home.
Simon had also reported that the attackers were hunting him. Somehow they knew he was working for us, and that he knew things he wasn’t supposed to know.
He had been a disposable, but I felt bad about sending Simon to his death. I kept wondering if he had the capacity to “wake up”, like I had done. For that matter, I felt bad about a lot of things. Here we were flying over the blasted remains of a prospering settlement. A settlement that might still be here, its people going about their normal lives, had I not persisted in wanting to come here. It was only too easy to look down at the smoldering ruins and feel responsible. The weight of it was hard and cold in my heart.
We arrived in the main street of Haventown. Officer Theodorsen took us to meet Lead Investigator Jensen, who was operating out of an emergency-orange temporary inflatable office complex at the north end of town. The town had the charred and pulverized look of a war zone. With the worlds and habitats of human space almost constantly in the grip of minor and major wars — some of which inevitably escalated to the use of fusion weapons — newsfeeds always had a steady supply of brutal images of former cities, towns and settlements, and they all looked like Haventown.
What the newsfeeds almost never conveyed, however, was the smell. The bodies had long been removed to Esseka for analysis, but there was still a hideous smell of burned meat under the stink of blackened ruins and exploded vehicles. I held my hands over my face, to keep the incriminating stink at bay. Every bit of wreckage was like an accusation. “If you’d just left it alone, if you’d just said no…”
Theodorsen adjusted his uniform and handed us over to the Lead Investigator’s Assistant, a brisk and efficient female disposable officer named Leni, who invited us to take a seat. Theodorsen had organized an appointment for us with Jensen, but Leni informed us that “the boss” was very busy today and could only spare a few minutes. I looked at Theodorsen who fiddled with his service tie and managed to look a little embarrassed.
“I’ll be waiting out here for you to provide an escort while you’re here,” he said.
I nodded thanks. We sat.
The collapsible, inflatable furniture felt solid enough, but like the whole structure it gave off an unpleasant chemical odor.
In the quiet, I found myself taking too much notice of the creaking, flexing noises of the office complex structure as the wind howled around and over it; it was an eerie sound. I hoped it was well-anchored. The creepy sounds only added to my feelings of gloom.
Gideon asked Leni if we could get some coffee. She looked at him with cool scorn. “My duties do not require me to provide beverages for visitor
s,” she said, enunciating just as clearly as Gideon ever had. Leni referred him to a small portable fab, from which we managed to coax two small cups of something resembling coffee. When mine was finished, I was left with an unpleasant aftertaste and a strange furry sensation on my tongue. Gideon, I noticed, looked like he was discovering the same unwelcome sensations.
We waited more than three hours. During that time a surprising number of cops and other individuals in bland suits came and went. Some had to wait as long as five minutes; others were shown right in, and Leni smiled and laughed and chatted like an old friend. Gideon flashed me many ironic glances. Twice, when this procession of people with better access had grown intolerable, Gideon attempted to berate Leni and insist that we had to see the Lead Investigator right away. Leni, of course, was a disposable assistant, and could not be berated. She kept flashing a polite smile and insisted that Mr. Jensen knew we were here and would see us shortly. Gideon, a man who had had a great many desperately frustrating encounters with disposable functionaries, looked ready to rupture something.
“What about the secrets of the mystic East?” I said, brightening.
He turned, glanced at me, and smiled. “How could I have forgotten that?” he said.
“We’ve been a little busy lately,” I said.
Gideon apologized profusely to Leni. She accepted his apology without any visible gloating, but very much as if she had a sense that the universe was returning to its proper equilibrium. He sat down next to me and I watched Leni. One more visitor came and went, and then Leni smiled at me, saying, “Inspector McGee, the Lead Investigator will see you now. Would you care for some coffee?”
I smiled at Gideon. “The magic is back.”
“You better believe it, baby.”
Chief Inspector Second Class Jensen was tall, well-built, with hazel eyes and oiled back dark hair. He had the air of someone who could ski downhill like a man possessed; his penetrating eyes looked like they missed nothing, or rather nothing dared hide from his gaze. For an unsettling, chilly moment I wondered if, somehow, Hydrogen Steel was watching through Jensen’s eyes and if, now that I was here, he might suddenly get called off the case, the way Inspector Tomba had been reassigned.
Hydrogen Steel Page 23
